


Take My Hand

by webcricket



Category: Supernatural
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-16
Updated: 2018-01-16
Packaged: 2019-03-05 11:04:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13386483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/webcricket/pseuds/webcricket
Summary: This one has been sitting half-written for more than a year. The lyrics of a beautiful gospel song (they precede the story) featured in the movie Selma inspired me to finish it today. Warnings for reader depression and angst. Castiel is loving and sweet and a fluffy rock.





	Take My Hand

**_“…take my hand, lead me on, let me stand,_  
I am tired, I am weak, I am worn;  
Through the storm, through the night,  
lead me on to the light…”** Thomas Dorsey 

“Hey,” Dean greets Castiel with a curt mumble, waving a coffee-stained manila folder through the air without actually looking up – it’s not like they’re expecting anyone else to come strolling unannounced through the front door.

“Hello Sam, Dean…” Scanning the expansive curved room from the landing, Cas’ chin bobs in polite salutation when Sam tears his concentration from a glowing laptop screen to spare the new arrival a quick glance and warm smile.

“Thanks for comin’ Cas. We could really use your help on this one,” Sam offers in welcome.

It’s then the angel notes your absence at the map table where the Winchesters have set up case camp. Failing to conceal the disappointment and concern behind his usual somber mask, the angel’s expression tenses – a line deepening to furrow his brow as blue eyes cloud with worry. There is no abandoned seat as though you’ve gotten up from your work to steal a break or to retrieve a dusty box in pursuit of answers from one of the many Men of Letter’s storage spaces. The atmosphere is turgid, leaden with the odors of stale beer, strong coffee, and greasy take out – no hint of your honeyed scent lingers in the air, and it’s not like you to be absent from the action of a hunt.

Suddenly his assumption that your brief responses to his texts and the unanswered calls during the preceding week were nothing more than you being too busy to address his often awkward attempts to keep in touch weigh heavy on his conscience. The muscles of his vessel’s chest seize as a swell of dread crashes over him – he should have suspected something was amiss. You hadn’t been yourself for weeks – isolating, shying from unwinding with the brothers after a case, disinterested in your typical routines. “Where’s Y/N?” he asks, boot heels clanging urgently upon each step of the bunker’s winding wrought iron staircase as he descends into the bunker proper.

“Uh-” Dean looks up, straining to seek an explanation. Unable to find the words, his green eyes widen and veer to his brother in search of assistance.

“Not feeling well,” Sam supplies, intonation suggesting that’s not the whole story.

The unspoken apprehension the brothers exchange fuels the angel’s unease – if you were hurt, or sick, why wouldn’t they have called for him earlier, knowing he could help. His interest in you, the urge to protect you, the magnetic draw he experiences in your presence, it’s different than anything he has ever felt for anyone. And yet sometimes the very same sense of grounding connection you bring him confounds him, even frightens him, extending beyond the realm of his angelic comprehension and compelling him to distance himself. At other times it drives him to distracted and detailed observation of your habits – the bashful smile flickering on your lips when you catch him staring never failing to make his vessel’s heart flutter and set his skin hotly aglow.

A hollow feeling nags at his stomach now. He swallows hard, guilt thick as it sinks down his gullet. He shouldn’t have left so abruptly last week. After spending the night holding you in his arms as you slept – your wearied request when he inquired how he could help with the restlessness you’d been suffering lately – he fled in the morning. Deeply conflicted about the profound contentment cushioning his celestial being at the prolonged physical nearness, he mumbled excuses about heavenly duties when you asked what was wrong. Closing his eyes, fists clenching at his sides, he can still see with clarity the pain dimming the usual radiance of your soul as he turned his back on you and walked away.

You were hurting then, not from his abandonment, although that certainly didn’t help, but drowning in a relentless rising storm of inner turmoil and growing exhausted from simply fighting to keep your head above the waves. The angel, perhaps better than anyone else in your life, empathizes with that agony of self-doubt all too well – the aching thought that no matter what you do or how hard you try you can’t seem to do anything right. That maybe everyone would be better off if you weren’t there at all – a walking talking burden of disappointment dragging the ones you love down. You needed him – not to tell you everything would be okay, nor to give you counsel and tell you what you felt wasn’t real or valid like Sam and Dean. You needed his quiet fortitude to lean on – needed a patient hand to hold in the oppressive darkness until you found your way out. You needed him, and he left.

Inhaling a sharp shallow breath, he quells a surge of anger at himself in reflection of his selfishness – voice a husky growl when the question emerges from his throat, “Why didn’t you call me sooner.”

“It’s not like that.” Perceiving the angel’s simmering wrath, Dean holds up a palm, endeavoring to calm his friend. “There’s nothing for you to fix.”

“You don’t know that – I can try.” Cas bristles, at once defensive and accusatory.

“Cas, believe me, we’ve tried everything. She just wants to be left alone,” Sam says with a frown.

_“Everything?”_ Cas rolls his eyes at the broad statement, the corner of his mouth flaring in ire. “Really?” With the Winchesters sitting out here pouring their energy and focus into a case, they’ve evidently tried everything except what you need most right now. That comfort you believe you don’t deserve and so are afraid to ask for – the reassurance that you are not alone. “Where. Is. She?” he demands through gritted teeth, livid glare a smoldering blaze of blue.

Sam gestures in the direction of your bedroom.

The angel blusters, trench coat billowing, into the hall toward your room. He halts outside your shut door, sucking in a long gulp of air to soothe the vibrations of grace threatening to burst his vessel’s seams. Sufficiently calmed, he exhales and raps a folded knuckle lightly on the painted wood.

Silence.

He knocks again, fingers grasping the doorknob and swinging the door inward when you don’t answer, a whisper of your name falling from his tongue.

“Dean, I already told you. I’m not hungry.”

“It’s me.” The angel takes the liberty of stepping across the threshold into the blackness blanketing the room.

Rolling over, both you and the mattress groaning at the movement, you peer out from beneath a heap of bedding to squint against the stinging bright light outlining the figure in the doorway. “Cas?”

“Yes.” He dares another step forward, sweeping a rumpled piece of clothing aside with his foot and closing the door behind himself. “I-I’m,” he falters, vision adjusting to gaze around the disordered room. A soggy untouched sandwich perches on the nightstand. His nostrils flare at the odor of soured mayonnaise, fetid tomato, and rancid meat. Several empty glass bottles of liquor peek from beneath the bedframe. Purple tinged puffs of flesh sag below your eyes, your head crowned in a halo of tangled hair. He moves closer, wanting to apologize, to absolve his guilt over leaving, but remembering this isn’t about him, he finds different words, “Sam tells me you’re feeling unwell. I thought maybe-”

“It’s fine. I’m fine. And I don’t need any more advice,” you grumble, slipping the covers back over your stressed aspect. If there were tears left to well in your drained eyes perhaps the angel’s acknowledgement would sting a bit less. Your mind screams for him to leave. You haven’t showered in days and imagine you must look as raw and repulsive as the torment of emotions churning inside of you. A small voiceless and fading part of you prays he will stay.

“Okay.” He continues his slow approach.

His comment catches you off guard, and you’re not certain if it was in regards to the rejection of further advice, to your prayer, or both. Emerging once more from your protective cocoon to doubtingly scrutinize him, you ask, “Okay? No, _why not work a case to distract you?_ Or, _get some fresh air and eat something, bacon cures everything_ edicts?”

He shakes his head. “I don’t see how ignoring one’s feelings will make them go away.” Eyes narrowing in contemplative thought, he adds, “And how does crisped pig fat cure anything?”

A faint smile passes fleeting over your chapped lips before the doubt creeps in to bully the speck of brightness into submission. “Don’t you need to be helping Sam and Dean? Or Heaven? Or something.”

“I thought maybe I could stay here with you for a while,” he states softly. Beside you now, he motions to the space between your tucked knees and the edge of the mattress, indicating his intent to sit and giving you time to protest if you don’t want him here.

“How-how long is a while?” you ask, choking on the shake of a sob, not allowing yourself to believe he actually wants to be here.

A tender smile tempering his gaze, he replies, “As long as you need it to be.” Shrugging the trench and suit coats simultaneously off his shoulders, he drapes them over the footboard before sitting. Even in the gloom of the room, his eyes are two stars glittering in a night sky as they settle upon you – a means to navigate the choppy sea of despair where you’re floundering and lost, fraught to find the strength and hope inside yourself by which to reckon the murky waters.

This isn’t the first time depression has overwhelmed you. Every time it gets this bad it feels like it’s not possible it will ever get any easier to cope – to face the world again when just getting out of bed seems an insurmountable task. And even if it does get better – what happens if and when it returns. “What if-,” your voice tremors, hardly a whisper. “What if it’s forever?”

“Then I will stay forever.” There is no pity in his reply, only acceptance and understanding you did not believe possible. He offers you his hand, glancing between the upturned palm and your weary countenance, features gentle and undemanding as he waits for you to take it in your own.


End file.
